This River Is Wild
by BlankCanvas23
Summary: It was 3:15 AM, and Nate River couldn't sleep. The case is consuming... but it's his thoughts that keep him awake. Thoughts, theories, worries and his accursed imagination. Near-centric, with lashings of M&M. Rated for lang, blood, violence.
1. Part 1: 1998

This River Is Wild

_Part 1 - 1998_

_A/N – _

_This part/chapter/whatever it is (and its subsequent sequels) are some of the first for DeathNote that I wrote, and you may come to the conclusion that I have a Near fetish._

_Of the degree; extreme. Times a gajillion. _

_But honestly, who wouldn't?_

_This part/chapter/whatever is set in the carefree Whammy days in September of 1998. Mello is about 10, Matt is almost 9 and Near is a little older than 8. L is... 18. A little bit over a month away from 19. _

_You have no idea how hard it was figuring out their ages. Wikipedia, please be a little nicer to me next time! _

_Don't own DeathNote nor the song 'This River Is Wild' by The Killers (though I do think it is extremely awesome)._

_I ain't got no, so don't sue me. ;-)_

_

* * *

_

It was 3:15AM, and Nate River was stirring.

Well, not awake; that would imply that he had been asleep, and he most certainly had not.

White tendrils of hair running smoothly in line with the creases in his valance, Near blankly stares at the luminous numbers of his LED bedside clock. He has stretched himself across the bed, head hanging off the edge so the numbers are upside down. They seem to mock him with brightness.

Near wants to sleep. Very badly, in fact. But sleep doesn't seem to want to claim him; he doesn't even feel tired.

He closes his eyes in mock slumber, trying to force a circle through a square.

* * *

3:16AM

* * *

Cracking one eyelid open, he appraises the clock. One minute.

He sighs.

By the soft shadows of light filtering in through his window he can see the basic outline of his room; desk, lamp, bookcase, dresser... which, ironically, holds only one type of dress.

He smirks in the dark; one of Mello's gripes with him involved the method of his dress,

_all in white, always in white_

but it always seemed a weak jibe in comparison to

_ROBOT _

all the others Mello had acquired over the years.

Near could understand why Mello disliked him so; the blonde boy had never beaten him in a test, examination or task throughout Near's entire schooling career. Near imagined it was extremely frustrating for the boy, whose brilliance was apparent from the beginning, to be deemed second to a younger ward.

Late one night, after visiting the bathroom, Near had noticed a crack of light from under the door in the library. Curiosity getting the better of him, he had pushed the heavy oak door open. Down the other end of the seemingly endless rows of shelves, head resting on a thick textbook about the human psyche, was Mello. He had fallen asleep studying again, but hadn't even been able to make it back to his room.

Near had stood beside him, watching his thin shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

Others may have tried to rouse the boy, or perhaps attempted to make him more comfortable. Near did neither; he turned on heel and left.

Not because he didn't care about Mello, not because it made him feel good about himself, not because he shrewdly realised the lack of sleep would cause Mello to score less than him (this had happened anyway.)

_No... _

Because Mello would have done the same for him.

* * *

3:23AM

* * *

It's strange.

Near stares at the small crack of pale light that filters in from under his door, lighting the way for the wards to relieve themselves in the middle of the night, still on his back, cheeks going faintly pink as the blood _thrumps_ in his temples.

He alone holds sway over his blooming mind's power, and yet...

He brings a pale hand up to his hair, which beings it customary dance without a thought.

...And yet it seems his mind controls him.

It's his imagination; more vivid and downright spookier than all the other children at Whammy's. His thoughts twist with idle importance, much like the smoke from Matt's concealed cigarettes, a habit that not even Mello knows about. (Near only knows of because he, quite literally, stumbled upon the redhead one afternoon in the garden, and had been under pain of death and other discomforts, sworn to secrecy.)

He wouldn't have told on Matt anyway. He supposes that they all need their escapes, be it sugar rushes, nicotine hits, or conjuring up improbable things that smiled and leered in the twilight. It just depended upon how much you needed them.

Near needs his imagination like a junkies needs their needles. He has his dope, but he needs to administer it at regular intervals or else he'll go crazy.

His toys, simplistic as they are, serve as his muse, the push of the injection that he needs. After all, imaginations are useless if there is nothing to stimulate them.

It doesn't seem to be working tonight though; no matter how many times he concentrates and wills things into existence beside his bed, all smiles and tales to tell, he just can't.

* * *

3:29AM

* * *

He can hear the giggling in his head. Noises of blissfully naive they are not; these giggles are rooted deep with malice, seasoned with hatred.

It hurts him in places that are supposed to be innocent and carefree,

_Because those places exist in others why can't they in me_

when the other wards, (some younger than his tender 8 years, but most older) poke him and tease him and try so very hard to get a reaction out of him as he reads or demolishes puzzles at alarming rates.

But when they finally grow bored and start to wander away, one will always whisper;

"ROBOT."

The others snicker, and Near feels something hot and potent roll over in his chest.

That's what hurts the most.

The taunting, the teasing... they all had him confused, yet utterly convinced.

He had realised, even now, when the real years of experimentation are beyond comprehension, that all hypothesises and educated estimations require something (or, someone) to test them.

This was why he wandered, almost of his own accord, into Matt and Mello's room, relishing the sweet smell of chocolate and the smooth curve of Matt's utility knife under his curious fingertips.

Robots don't bleed, after all.

So when the two laughing older boys skidded into their room they found it not empty and sweet but filled with the smell of rust, a soft curved smile on a paling face and a torso usually wrapped in white now steadily staining a deep blood red.

The small, knowing, _triumphant_ smile on Near's face stays long after he feels the blood

_the life-force that possesses me, now I'm just like the rest of you, see_

rush from his head and had fallen, twitching, to the floor, black stars obscuring his vision.

* * *

3:39AM

* * *

That had been two days ago.

The news of Near's collapse had spread through the halls like wildfire. He supposed that that was how gossip travelled best: underground.

He assumes that Mello, or possibly Matt, had been tortured out of information concerning the event, but no-one had come to ask Near himself about it.

...Well, almost no-one.

L has been back for just on a week now; he is currently in between cases, and although he is now old enough to live on his own if he wished, the man has never been one for the norm.

Near smiles faintly just at the thought; the raven haired enigma had arrived, as was his want, unexpectedly upon the doorstep, and had been met with an even mixture of squeals of delight and impressed murmurings. He had appeared at dinner every night, (remaining subdued till the cheesecake had been passed around) but the wards knew better than expecting to see him at any other meal. Near doubted the man ate anything was wasn't sickly sweet or coffee.

After being confined to his room (with no toys; he assumes that is his _real _punishment) Near sits alone, mentally preparing himself for countless hours of boredom masquerading as a recovery period. None of the others visit him, but it's all he expects.

So it is with a degree of suprise (and a slightly higher degree of gratitude) that he finds L, the unshakeable, unstoppable man of hushed legends, sitting, crouched on the edge of his bed as he wakes the next morning, toes dimpling the bedspread, eyes wide. Not with concern, nor empathy. The fact that the insomniac is even here, is even looking at him is enough for Near. They are similar in this way; their presence speaks volumes. Others question their worth, their usefulness, their _tangibility_... but the fact that their minds

_so heavy but never a burden_

decide that they are to even acknowledge a source of discrepancy is sufficient.

_A type of twisted Newton's Law; _Near thinks now, still lying in the calm of twilight, fingers tugging his white locks absently, _unmoveable objects affected by external forces beyond their control only move when they deem it necessary._

"Nate."

A statement. No answer was required, and even if there was, Near would not fulfil his wish.

So much more is said in those eyes than words could ever formulate. The two stared at each other for a moment, a moment too long and perhaps not long enough.

L blinks, shattering the silent shouting of their thoughts and leaves the room, slouching.

Mello, of course, was sitting just outside the door. He gives Near a withering glare behind L's back, and follows the detective down the hall like a trained puppy.

It's a race, Near knows, or a competition between himself and Mello to take over from L. While Mello has not gone to corrupt Near's stance on becoming L, he has also not gone to further himself in the tournament.

He has gone to watch.

L's door is always open; but the gesture is not an invitation. The only children allowed to stand in the doorway are Mello and himself. Matt once loitered very quickly there, and L didn't mind, (the gesture, in fact, brought a ghost of a smile to the man's pale lips) but the others wards don't have the nerve to even consider it.

It's almost a desperate type of osmosis; Mello and Near stand in the same room as L, watching him research, think and solve in the hopes that one day, they can become just like him. He doesn't talk to them, and they don't talk to him. Observation only.

His hand relinquishing it's familiar territory of soft hair, Near hums, making noise in the stillness of the night. Near doesn't know about Mello, but he only goes to learn how to be _better_ than L, not be just like him. L, like all other

_robots_

humans, has faults. No matter how much this unsettles Near, he is determined to rise above trivial matters such as weak points; (L, for example, almost always chose cases that involved mass murders or children) because he is only as strong as he makes himself.

* * *

3:55 AM

* * *

Near's hands, the pale spiders that they are, cast webs across his small torso and slowly trace the mark left there. Starting perfectly in line with his bellybutton, the line carves its way towards and over the slight curve of thin, narrow hips before tampering off.

He can feel it; under all the gauze, stitches and bandages he can feel the ragged cut he inflicted upon himself.

One did get rather messy during experiments, but that was to be expected.

Near had been cleaned, reprimanded and sent to bed for recovery, but the rusty smell remained in Matt and Mello's room, much to their chagrin.

Apparently, when Near had fallen down on the hardwood floor after the beautiful dark stars pressing down upon his brain had taken over, most of his blood, the newfound life-force, had stained the ancient wood.

So now Matt and Mello were sleeping on cots outside their room, waiting for the wood to be torn out and replaced. If Near strained, he could hear their soft breathing.

It was soft and in sync, but the rhythmic tide did nothing to lull him to sleep.

* * *

4:00 AM

* * *

Serenity.

Near finally moves; the pain in his head sighs in relief as he does, but that induces

_the experiment_

the cut along his hip to sing out its own protests. He ignores the demands, resting his gently pointed chin on the back of his palm. He watches the door.

Sometimes, not often, but enough for it to not be seen as a temporary bout of madness and hallucination, he can hear Mello and Matt mumble in their sleep.

For some strange reason, it makes him think fondly of links, ties, and anchors. The fact that these two nine, almost ten year olds murmur and mutter to each-other (of this fact, Near is the most certain of – 99.95 percent) in the depths of R.E.M sleep, makes him hope.

Not for himself, not for love, not even for Matt, Mello, innocence and toy trains... but for humanity.

If people, even at such tender ages, even after suffering through so much pain, after having nothing else to lose, can still find the strength within themselves to cling to each-other and whisper secrets in the depths of sleep, then...

He smiles; a tender, cautious thing.

A soft snuffling causes him to lift his head further, senses honing in and sharpening in anticipation.

"Meh-" A yawn. "Lo?"

This sounds different; almost a conscious effort to formulate words. Near's forehead tenses; his version of a raised eyebrow.

"Shhh... Matt... Shhh..."

Defiantly awake.

Interest and curiosity mounting, Near slides off the bed, his sock covered feet muffling his footsteps, and sits beside the door.

"Wh- what are you doing?" Matt's voice, usually calm and silky, has a slightly panicky edge to it, though Near can't figure out why.

"I wanna talk." Is the stoic reply.

Matt sighs. "It can wait till morning." A _frump_of bed-sheets and a chorus of bedsprings agrees with Matt.

Mello clucks his tongue, and the bedsprings protest wildly as they find themselves accommodating an extra person. Matt groans. Near can sympathise; Mello being Mello is hard enough to deal with during the day, let alone at four o'clock in the morning.

Wearily; "Bout what, Mel?"

Bluntly; "About Near."

Aforementioned boy places his ear to the door; to hell with subtlety.

He surprises himself with such a statement, even in his own mind; it's really more of a Mello thing to say, Mello with his blonde hair and icy blue eyes and sneering lips, all Bloody Hells, and Holy Shits and the like.

Near halts his minds march along on the roads that lead to Mello, and listens again.

"What about Near?" Matt whispers.

There was a short pause. Near imagined Matt was rubbing his denim eyes, trying vainly to wake up enough to reason with Mello. Near wished him the best on his endeavour.

"Why... why did we cover for him? Why did we _lie_... for _Near_?"

Near winces behind the door. Given the lack of _shame on you_'s and _should have known better_'s, he had suspected that Matt (and possibly Mello, although he wasn't holding his breath) had lied on his behalf to reduce the severity of his actions regarding his experiment.

It was a working hypothesis; he had been unconscious for a good half hour after he saw them burst through the door...

But something in his stomach told him otherwise. Perhaps he was just deluding himself, so desperate for attention that wasn't to do with his genius, even though he thought himself above such mundane actions...

But the way Mello said it...

His cut tingles, as though agreeing with him.

Matt huffs outside the door. Despite the sound being absolutely adorable, Mello ignores him.

"He wanders into our room, cuts his damn stomach-"

"Hip." Matt interjects around a yawn.

"Whatever. It's not the point I'm trying to make. He cuts himself open with _your_ knife, bleeds all over _our_ floor... and the first thing you say is; 'Is he OK?'"

Another pause.

"And then Roger runs in, and starts yelling, and you turn to him and..."

Another pause. Near pictures Matt cocking an eyebrow expectantly and the corners of his mouth twitch.

"You lie! You stand there, and apologise for leaving your knife out! You... stand there and say 'He must've fallen, it was an accident!'"

"Yeah? So?" Matt sounds totally at ease with the situation.

"And then... you look at me, and say; 'Mello must have left a chocolate wrapper on the ground, and he tripped.' And..."

Mello tries to continue the tirade, but ends up stammering, and swallows heavily.

"You know, you agreed." Matt points out, something edging his voice. Irritation? "You nodded, and apologised. You lied too, Mel. So don't sit there and-"

"I... I... I know."

Near shuffles even closer to the door.

"I just... don't know why! Why, Matt? Why did I lie for that little albino twat?" A thump; Near assumes Mello has punched a pillow in frustration.

"Because... he's our friend." Matt says simply.

Near feels his brain short circuit. Black sheets cover the reasoning centres of his brain, and his fingers tremble upon the hard wood of the door.

_Friend?_

"Friend?" Mello stage whispers, to make sure that Matt hears his indignation. "Near, our friend? No! He never hangs out with us; he never even _talks_ to us, he just sits in his flipping room all day, doing his flipping puzzles!"

"Well, fine. Maybe he's not our friend. But Mel, you have to admit... he's like us."

_What?_

"WHAT?!?"

"Shhh!"

Mello tries to make another protest, but the bedsprings sing and Near can only hear muffled insults. There was a 5 percent chance that Matt had tried to suffocate Mello with a pillow, but it was more likely that Matt had placed one of his hands over Mello's mouth.

"He's... smart, obviously."

Mello made a sound that sounded like 'Duh', even around Matt's fingers.

"But... there's something else too. Listen, Mello... who would you be friends with if you didn't have me?"

"I'd always be friends with you." Matt had apparently removed his fingers.

"I mean, if I wasn't here."

"I'd go find you."

A pause. Near hoped that no-one needed to use the bathroom at this end of the hall.

Incredulous: "Really?"

Softly: "O'course."

"Gee... Thanks." Matt's voice has a smile in it, so sweet Near can taste it.

"So, what were you trying to say?" Mello prompted.

"Huh? Oh, right..." Matt chuckles, the sound a tad too earnest.

"Friends have things in common, right? Well... we all think the same way."

Silence. Matt sighs, and elaborates.

"OK... when I look at a clock or something, I know how it works. Without having to take it apart. When Near looks at his puzzles, he already knows the end product, without have to look at the picture. Mel, when you look at a chocolate bar, you already know the best way to open it."

"Yeah," the blonde interjects cheekily, "quickly."

Matt laughs. "I set myself up for that one."

Mello laughs too. "Too easy."

"But seriously... we think the same way. Haven't you ever noticed that?"

Mello is silent, and Near can't take it anymore.

He opens the door, and steps out into the hallway. He has long decided not to conceal the fact that he was listening, but if they asked him, he would deny the duration.

A hand introduces itself to his hair, and he stares at his sock-covered feet.

"I noticed." He whispers.

His heart beats loudly in his chest. Even though it is only two words, he is stepping over carefully drawn lines in his mind, letting them blur. Two words, and he is acknowledging that he knows of others, that he thinks about others than himself... cares, even.

He really didn't think it was possible for his legs to stay up after stepping out, but they are handling the pressure better than he is.

To a normal 8 year old boy, admitting to similar things with peers is natural. Acceptable.

Near has never even spoken to the other wards until now.

He can feel their gazes, twin flashes in the dark, beckoning him.

He doesn't want to look up. He looks up anyway.

Mihael Keehl, for the first time in all his tough talking, rough housing nine and three quarter years, smiles at Near without a trace of poison. Near can instantly see why Matt is friends with him; for someone who's entire existence seems to revolve around being a perpetual thorn in everyone's sides, that smile makes Mello look so...

Human.

"People like us stick together." Mail Jeervas decides sagely, and throws back a section of the doona Mello and himself are bundled under.

Near smiles. He can see the two boys' eyes go wide, and it occurs to Near that this is the first show of emotion anyone at Whammy's has ever seen from him. He clamours carefully onto the bed, and rests his head on Matt's shoulder. Matt starts to chuckle, but stops when Mello's head buries itself into the crock of his neck.

Near listens to Matt's breath catch, but is too suddenly too tired to smile.

"So," Mello asks, sleep tugging at his eyelids "solved any good puzzles lately?"

But Nate River is already asleep.

* * *

6:00 AM

* * *

Quillish opens his eyes. Rubs them. Stares at the clock, hating it for having the audacity to show such an ungodly hour.

He has to use the bathroom.

The jokes about becoming old ring in his ears as he slides on a dressing gown and starts down the hall, dimly lit for the exact purpose he is about to indulge in.

He starts, almost absentmindedly, creating lists for the coming day; Bake L strawberry cheesecake, send Roger on an errand to the local chapel, ask Near if...

"Near?" he whispers in the half-light, inching closer to one of the cots set up outside the small boy's room, the one that should only house Matt.

Instead he finds three boys, all asleep under a quilt thrown haphazardly over their legs. Matt is in the middle, sitting up against the wall. Being Matt, he looks completely at ease, although Quillish grimaces at the thought of the stiffness of the boy's back when he wakes. Mello is on Matt's right; his head curving into the other boys neck, his arm resting on his chest, his eyes flicking under their lids, sighing. And Near...

Quillish smiles. Near is on Matt's left, pale fingers resting on Matt's arm almost tentatively, his head propped against the older boy's shoulder, a content... no, _happy _smile on his small face.

They look like the biggest bunch of misfits he has ever seen; Mello with his rosary pressed into his thin chest, Matt with his goggles slipping over his eyes, and Near with his twists of pale hair swaying slightly with every deep breath in...

And yet, they fit so well together.

Quillish chuckles, straightens the quilt, and makes his way down the hall, whistling.

_

* * *

A/N -_

_Please review! They send me into peals of girlish laughter, with much hand clapping and the like. _

_Got the mental picture? Make it a reality, people. _


	2. Part 2: 2009

This River Is Wild

Part 2 - 2009

* * *

_A/N – _

_OK... Just so we are clear..._

_This chapter/part is set 10 or so years after the first, which makes it the 5__th__ of March of 2009; the day Near introduces himself as N to the USA._

_... And I failed totally at the timeframe. I would like to point out that this is based off the Anime, with the Manga timeframe, cause I fail at life. *Head-desk* _

_As you can tell, I'm totally OC about dates. And time. And ages. And descriptions. And mostly everything. _

_Don't own DeathNote, but I have a Near tied up in my closet. A Matt will soon join him. Mello was too quick for me, but now I have bait. *Waves a chocolate coated Matt* _

_HAHAHA!_

_... Moving on._

* * *

It was 3:15 AM, and Nate River still couldn't sleep.

The irony was not lost on him, either. The scene was so alike to his last bout of insomnia that he could have attributed it to some higher entity with a sense of humour. A twisted sense of humour.

He guessed that was why the sensation was referred to as déjà vu: Spartan room, white walls, ceiling and furnishings... Near himself.

He was older; 10 years, 7 months, 6 days, 3 hours and 15 minutes and 37 seconds, to be precise, but that was to be expected. Such was the same for physical changes, although he tended not to notice such mundane things like that. It was a given, would always happen, and therefore was known, but not uninteresting. When he passed in front of mirrors (an unavoidable part of life, he tried to remind himself around a wince), he resembled a sculpture by the ancient Etruscans; limbs impossibly long and thin, slender, arched neck, thin shoulders, narrow hips... eyes that were disproportionately huge. His shock (no pun intended) of white locks only furthered the feeling of _old_, of frailty...

Physical changes paled in comparison to his mental, however. His current title – N, the head of the Special Provision for Kira – was proof enough of that.

He had smirked when they had asked him what his name was as he approached the front desk of headquarters for the first time. No-one had been told of his arrival; the force itself had only been founded a few days beforehand. The guards had looked thoroughly disturbed at his twisted expression; Near was not as clandestine with his facial expressions as he once was, back

_at home_

at Whammy's.

"N" he had intoned, finger twirling in his hair and a steel edge in his eyes.

Because N was a force of nature, N could shake hardened criminals to the core, N had absolute power over every last solider in his armada, plastic or flesh.

_N, huh?_

Nothing more than a joke. A pun. A parody of

_L_

a greater man, a moniker to hide something he didn't even think deserved to be hidden.

Nate River, curled up around white blankets like a last ditch defence against reality, tries not to think about how much that unsettles him.

* * *

3:19 AM

* * *

He was currently residing in the SPK headquarters in the United States of America. He had arrived from England that afternoon, Roger walking along side him as they exited the International terminal at JFK. The head of the FBI had escorted them to an awaiting limousine, accordingly flanked by burly men in black suits. They had met with the President briefly, (Near had been thoroughly disinterested throughout the meeting; the man had gawked at him like a three year old seeing some exotic animal at the zoo) and finally had been shown to his room.

Roger loitered by the door as Near rustled through his bag to find his Mega Man.

"Near, is this room adequate?"

"Yes Roger, it will do."

The old man had looked down at his fingers when Near met his eyes.

"You are free to leave, Roger." Near decided. The man turned to leave, and stopped, instead gazing back at Near.

"Near... please, keep yourself safe."

Without blinking, Near pointed to a security camera in the corner of the room.

"It is almost impossible for me to be harmed within this building." He stated bluntly.

"Yes, but I..."

Met with an unblinking stare from both the camera and Near, Roger opened and closed his mouth, shook his head, and had left without a word.

Near had resumed searching for the Mega Man.

But it wasn't just the different location, Near mused, finger dancing a familiar routine with his hair. What...

It was the silence, he realised, anxiety nibbling at his seemingly demolished stomach.

At Whammy's, the leaves whistled outside windows, the stairs creaked whether someone was on them or not, and the soft, gentle rhythms of the countless boys and girls taking deep breaths in even deeper slumbers.

Whammy's, even in the earliest hours of the morning, had been alive.

Near felt as though he was sleeping in a tomb.

He flips himself over onto his stomach violently, dispelling thoughts of

_L_

tombs and burials; if his brain was allowed down that particular path of stillness and unwaking slumber...

He shudders in spite of the warm March breeze coming in from the open window.

...He would never come back.

* * *

3:29 AM

* * *

Like Mello, he supposes.

People like Mello cared too much about others, and when they were

_killed, murdered, done away with, millions of expressions each more vile than the last_

gone he let his emotions get the better of him; he acted rashly.

Near breathes out onto his palm, the warm gust ghosting over the pallid skin in an attempt to force life into it. He sometimes wonders what it would have been like if Mello had seen things rationally, if he had joined forces with him... would they have found Kira by now, or would they both have already perished?

But these thoughts are irrelevant; what had happened could not have been changed; L had died, and Mello had felt the pain too deeply to see sense or reason.

He had left the orphanage soon after, stolen by the night.

* * *

3:31 AM

* * *

Strange...

Near flips himself back onto his spine, with less violence than the last time, and stares at the bare white ceiling again.

Back at Whammy's, the buildings were old, and Near's piece of ceiling had cracks that interlocked, snaking their way around the room, firing up his imagination with a 90 percent success rate.

...strange that only ones who had noticed Mello had left were Roger, Near and Matt. Near had always thought that Mello was well known, popular with the other wards, but apparently the fixation with the blonde dynamo had only laid upon the surface.

It was strange that the only people that had ever really known Mello could have been counted on one of his pale, spider-like hands.

Mr Whammy, Roger, L, Himself and...

Matt.

_Oh..._

The boy had gotten so thin in the weeks after Mello had left, as though the blonde's perchance for chocolate and sweets had somehow been enough sustenance for the both of them... keeping them both alive.

And, he supposed, it had. Matt and Mello had known each-other so well, had spent so much time together, and had loved each-other with such a degree of desperation and fierceness that they had become symbiotic.

Without one to feed, listen to, and love the other, they both die.

And Matt had been dying a slow, painful death behind Whammy's tall, wrought iron gates.

Near had watched him with a sort of morbid fascination; a small child watching a fish trying to breathe after its washed up on a beach, it's eyes darting around hopelessly, fins flailing, lungs visibly inflating and deflating with a gradually slowing rate...

Near would spend countless hours locked in his room, splitting his time between studying case files obsessively in his own search for Kira, and staring out the window, watching Matt compulsively smoking in the garden.

He feels

_which is strange enough_

sorry for the boy, whose eyes will one day stop flicking around madly for salvation.

'_I'd go find you.' That's what Mello promised you. And you're going to try to find him, but I can help you. _

_I will help you. _

* * *

3:36AM

* * *

"Los Angeles."

"What?"

It's Matt's 18th birthday, and he is leaving Whammy's. Forever. The idea seems incomprehensible to Near, although at the time, he himself is only a year or so away from leaving.

To go to the Out There.

Matt looks up from his rucksack, (which is filled with, Near thinks with something that borders on amusement, enough striped articles to clothe the entire population of Alcatraz.) and crosses his arms.

A newly acquired habit to protect something that's supposed to beat.

Matt's eyes, the colour of turgid storm clouds, stare back at him harshly. Near blinks at them. He has long debated with himself the pro's and con's of what he is about to do, and has come to the conclusion that Matt

_Because... he's our friend_

should know.

"Near? What about Los Angeles?"

His voice had long lost its silky, playful tone; Matt's voice is now deeper, heavy and bitingly sarcastic. Near tries hard not to look away.

Others around the orphanage, spurred on by fascination and concern for the red head, ask him where he is going to go, but all Matt does is shrug.

But Near knows.

"Mello."

Something flashes in Matt's eyes, not a huge, stunning flash, in reality it's nothing more than a glimmer; a coin being thrown into a vast ocean, catching sunlight as it twists.

But it's the first Near has seen of it in a long, long time.

"Mello." Matt repeats. His lips tighten, and Near sees his hands shake, just a little but enough for Near to see, even at his distance; safe, on the other side of the room, standing in the doorframe.

"What makes you-"

Near raises a hand, cutting him off.

"You are going to search for Mello, Matt, but you don't know where to start. I indulged in a little research of my own, and traced him to Los Angles."

Matt stares at him. Near expected as much.

"I was going to say," Matt says suddenly, a little too loudly. "what makes you think I want to find Mello?" The name earns a sneer from the boy.

A direct challenge. Near groans internally.

"That's why you are leaving with only a backpack, correct?" He drones. "Besides the fact, you do not tell other's of where you are going, not because of privacy or avoidance; you truly have no idea." Matt's sneer freezes.

"Also-"

"ALSO YOU ARE A FUCKING TWAT!"

Near's eyes widened; he hadn't expected _that_.

Matt's breathing increases, deepens.

His shoulders, no longer thin and frail but instead broad and muscular, move, tugging the striped material of his shirt tighter then looser. His copper hair hangs in his eyes as he slowly raises his face to Near's.

The storm clouds in Matt's eyes have broken; silent rain trickles down his cheeks.

Near watches them run along a jawbone, and fall onto Matt's red and black stripped shirt, making the material the tiniest degree darker.

"How long have you known where he is?" he whispers.

Near shrugs slightly. "That's irrelevant."

Suddenly, the air in the room has all but gone. Near suspects a sudden pocket of carbon monoxide had erupted out of the ground and has robbed him of oxygen.

Or, it could have been Matt's fingers, unsurprisingly strong but surprisingly tight, wrapped around his throat. Near doesn't feel the slam of his fragile body against the wall, nor the warm trickle of blood staining his hair as red as Matt's.

All he feels is the tight iron grip, and warm tears that aren't his on his chest.

On a certain level, possibly the one above the short circuiting hardware and flashing lights that are currently firing off in his brain, Near understands that this feeling; the tight feeling in his chest from lack of air,

_but there is air all around me __breathe_

extremities numb,

_I can't move my fingertips, nor wiggle my toes_

eyes opened wide but still not seeing anything,

_lots of white with black stars pressing in... oddly familiar..._

is how Matt has been feeling every day of his life.

Somewhere above him, Matt is yelling.

"How LONG, Near? ANSWER ME!"

Near tries to make a sound, but all it does is rob him of more precious air. Matt's fingers loosen, but not much.

"And don't tell me it's fucking irrelevant!" He snarls, handsome features twisted.

"I..." Near gasps another deep breath in. "Won't. Haven't... known for long..." He wheezes, and Matt's fingers loosen a little bit more.

"What matters..." Another breath, deeper than the last. "Is that..."

"What." Matt's fingers wriggle against his throat, threatening. Near doesn't need to be told twice.

"Is that you find him. And stay with him, because you know you want to..."

Matt's hands whisper away from his neck, and Near's sock-covered feet touch the floor again.

"And tell him you love him, Matt. Because you do."

Matt's eyes go wide. Near, his vision returning, can see the flash again; a match being thrown into a pile of wood. He hopes it will catch fire, and return what was once there. It's all they can both hope for.

His energy spent, Near lets himself crumble to the floor.

"I do." Matt murmurs, almost reverently. He blinks, and looks down at Near, pooled and gasping at his feet.

Near, through the haze in his mind, feels a pair of warm hands lifting him upright. Limbs still feeling like jelly, he doubts he can stand on his own. Near feels Matt's hands grasping him tightly and sighs, relieved that the boy is helping him. All is apparently forgiven.

Near's head flops forward, and his forehead meets something hard...

Something warm... pressing firmly against him...

It takes him 3.5 seconds to realise that Matt is hugging him.

The sensation is unlike any other Near has ever experienced. It seems so shockingly intimate; reminding him of

_friends_

the night he had first spoken to Matt and Mello.

He has never been one for human contact; greatly preferring the smooth cold surfaces of toys, blocks and paper, but this is... different. Tight arms wrapped around his torso, warm tears blurring into his neck, vibrant hair tickling his cheek, completed with a smell that is uniquely Matt...

Shock from such a display of emotion has rendered Near speechless, his eyes growing wider with each passing second.

Matt, however, seems more used to the custom of hugs. "I never stopped." Matt tells Near's hair quietly.

"I know." The boy manages.

But before Near can recover enough to raise his arms to return the gesture, Matt releases him. He turns and grabs his rucksack, starting for the door. But before he reaches it, Matt pauses.

"Where abouts in Los Angeles?" he asks, facing the dark of the hall, his voice echoing.

A smile, impossibly small, but still there. "Where's the fun in that?" Near counters, finally on level ground.

What Near's smile lacks, Matt's more than makes up for it. The almost man chuckles, turns to look at Near one more time

_with fondness? Or is that just what you wanted?_

and starts down the hall, boots echoing against the hardwood floors.

* * *

3:55 AM

* * *

That had been a year and a half ago.

Near bites his bottom lip, and absently clutches at his Mega Man tucked in beside him. His cool plastic body is soon explored by Near's fingertips, demanding a sense of familiarity.

For a while, Near himself had felt angry at Mello. Not only for leaving Whammy's but for leaving without telling anyone, as though ashamed. For leaving Near with his first case, a case so huge it had taken him three years to collect enough information just to know what he was up against.

For leaving

_me _

Matt. Couldn't he see how much

_I _

Matt needed him? Didn't he _care_?

Near supposed, in the deep and private parts of Mello's heart, he had. He had realised that leaving really meant leaving people behind.

But, being Mello, he had probably pushed those thoughts deep down inside him, instead choosing to leave with a sneer and a haughty sweep of blonde locks instead of an apology.

_Bastard _Near thinks now, clutching white linen in his small ineffectual fists.

* * *

4:00 AM

* * *

_Shouldn't be thinking like that._

Near places his head under his pillow. The gesture is fruitless; the noise he is trying to escape from comes from his mind, not from any outside source.

The voice of Reason, perhaps?

Near sneers in the dark. Justice is Reason. His conscience is what bothering him.

_Why should it? You've done nothing wrong._

But he _feels_ wrong. So very wrong; the anxiousness sits in his chest like a hot rock, scalding him from the inside out. Ever since he stepped foot in this country, ever since he took up a name that mocked him more than represented him, ever since...

_L!_

His vision swims before him; almost like he's placed his head underwater.

Good. If his head is underwater than he isn't here, fisting the blankets of a bed that isn't his. He isn't feeling the hot hot scalding of his tears making lines down his cheeks. Then Mello and Matt aren't in any danger of being separated by death or worse. Then none of this is real. _None of this..._

* * *

4:05 AM

* * *

"L is dead."

_... can be real._

Near's small hand freezes just before he places the last few puzzle pieces into their according gaps, finishing his masterpiece.

Or now, a memoriam.

The fragments of the letter L stare back out of the white of both the cardboard and his palm, mocking him.

"Put us together Nate. Put me together again. Bring me back."

Their imaginary

_vivid, so much more than the other children's _

voices hurt him deeply. He drops the whispering pieces onto the carpet as though they were poisonous.

Mello doesn't notice; he's too busy gaping and demanding and raising his voice. Near wishes he could scream, but his voice has died in his throat.

Absently, he places the pieces back onto the puzzle. Together again. It does nothing to soothe him; instead the sight of a completed puzzle makes him want to fall apart even more.

This pain he feels is incredible. He suspected he had emotions

_does not compute does not compute does not compute_

but never knew he could feel this deeply, this strongly. Vastly different thoughts roar blindly through his mind, accusations mixed with laments until his head was filled with their screaming whispers...

Of shock:_  
How could this happen? He was so careful, what did that Kira do to him?_

Horror:  
_If he's killed L it's only a matter of time now..._

Revulsion:  
_Why do you care? He hardly spoke to you, and now you're going to pieces? Disgusting! You are only as strong as you make yourself so don't you dare shake._

Sadness:  
_He's gone..._

L's gone. And Near has never been so scared.

Emotions and thoughts swarm like angry bees in his mind, threatening to make him go insane. He is as still as a marble statue, faceless and cold, curled up on Roger's office floor; a perfect timeless homage to silent suffering.

Mello is talking again; his honeyed voice enters the curve of one ear and spirits through the other.

Near doesn't move. He can't move, not without screaming and sobbing hysterically from the horror and pain and grief and sadness of it all.

_Crossroads._ He thinks in the gloom of a room that isn't yet his, fingers tugging at his hair and unnoticed tears staining his collar. _One way or the other. _

He wants to feel all these emotions, to be something other than

_a robot 78 percent probability of system shutdown _

a faceless letter, an entity. He wants to stand and scream till his ears bleed. He wants to make noise, to move, to affect others. To be _real_, goddamnit!

...but he can't.

L showed his face. L got emotionally involved. His facades, his constant frozen expression, much like those of his toys, all standing to attention and motionless, did nothing to protect him in the end.

A face and a name. And the greatest detective in the world was dead.

**I won't. **

He'd seen the light. L was brilliant at solving cases; he'd known of human emotions and psyche, of patterns and social customs. But he'd delved too deep; he'd felt something hit his soul and that was the end of it. Mello couldn't do this either; his weaknesses

_Matt_

and emotional reactions could be gauged, turned into weapons against him. He'd surely perish on his own.

_But..._

If Near could ignore human emotions... no, cut them out of the process entirely, he'd be able to solve this case.

_It's not too late to feel... _a voice, small but hopeful whispers in his ear. Near breathes out, and silences the voice with a mental image of a guillotine.

Hands steady, he slides his fingers under the puzzle board, and tips it onto the ground. Mello and Roger turn to look at him.

"If you can't win the game..."

"If you can't solve the puzzle..."

"Then you're just a loser."

His road was chosen.

As Near silently places the pieces back onto the board, starting anew, he banishes all emotion, all feeling, all weakness from his mind, body and soul.

He needs armour, a cold hard steel visage and nothingness.

Nothing. With nothing he'd have nothing to lose, no-one to hurt, everything to gain.

But...

* * *

4:30 AM

* * *

But what if he had something?

Lifting his head out of his hands, Near considers. His forgotten tears dry on flushed cheeks, and his heart

_it's there, safe and hidden but there_

beats sturdily against his ribs.

No matter how much it pained him, he didn't regret the path of silence and stone he had chosen. That way, he could play to his strengths, as Mello and Matt could of their own; Mello's the one of fire and destruction, Matt's the one of interior thoughts and external action.

They all balanced each other out: Near thought inside, Mello acted outside, and Matt paid visits to either accordingly.

Near chuckles at the childishness of it, but it makes sense.

In the slowly lightening room, Near rolls slowly over onto his back again. His room faces the East; and he can see the horizon losing its midnight black colour, fading away at the edges.

He does have something, something L hadn't: Comrades. Kindred spirits.

Friends.

His hands twist under his shirt and outline the faint edges of his scar thoughtfully.

_Is that a good thing? The safe thing?_

Near knows it isn't safe; every day of his life he has wondered what fate had befallen Matt and Mello. Where they alive? Where they together?

He just didn't know.

It wasn't as if he didn't want to know; hell, he wants to see them more than he wants to defeat Kira, it was just that...

His index finger pushes down on the scar and drags along its length, mimicking an action it had performed a long time ago.

... That he didn't want them to be found. He would rather have them hidden from everyone, including himself, in obscurity, than becoming reckless and playing right into Kira's hands.

But the damage had been done; by acknowledging them all those years ago, he had found himself taking on responsibility for more than just his wellbeing.

His scar was a permanent reminder of that. A constant whisper in his ear that if he failed, if he didn't find this brilliant yet utterly insane murder, that there were lives other than his at stake.

Near doesn't want Kira to discover just how much a redhead with orange goggles and a blonde with a temper mean to him.

Such a _human_ weakness was companionship... and yet, how strangely satisfying.

Near's eyelids are getting heavy

_just close them for a second..._

and he feels his hand flop back onto the bed sheets. He tries to chuckle but ends up yawning.

So it is a very unsafe thing to have friends, especially when the price for failure was their (and possibly your own) life.

_But it is a good thing too. _He reasons drowsily, the room around him fading from view behind his lowered lashes. _Having... friends._

And of that fact, he doesn't need a percentage.

* * *

6:30 AM

* * *

"Sir."

The Commander of the SPK, one Anthony Rester, is the first to acknowledge Near as he walks into the cavernous room that is the headquarters for the SPK. It's early, but Near hasn't meet all of his team of investigators yet, and early is a good a time as any.

He shuffles to a nearby chair, curling his arm around a leg and losing his hand in his hair. Eyes sweep across the other patrons in the room, all trained officers of the law. All trained to follow him in the search for Kira.

"Commander Rester." Near replies stiffly. He's still not completely trusting of anyone yet, but neither are they. Near can see it in their eyes; strange concoctions of _Who is this? _and _He's just a kid! _mixed with hearty doses of fear and amusement.

_Well._ The thing about first impressions was that you only got to make them once. Near smirks. _They'll see._

"There is... something here for you."

Near pauses, his hand poised gracefully above a folder containing briefed notes for the case.

"Anything more specific than that general assessment?" he asks blithely.

Someone in the back of the room shuffles their feet.

"You are more than welcome to see for yourself, sir." Rester answers calmly but firmly.

Near smiles on the inside. A straight shooter. That's good.

He nods absently as one of the officers places the something on the desktop.

Near stares, finger twirling in his hair, theories firing off in his brain accordingly.

_A present?_

The box is small, and is silver with a golden bow wrapped around it. Ghostlike fingers trace the edges as though the package contained explosives.

Given the current situation, that was plausible, but the agents would have already checked.

Commander Rester trades a glance with a young raven haired man named Giovanni over Near's head.

"Please, don't do that. If you have something to discuss, leave the room or announce it to everyone." Near drawls.

The silence in the room is deafening. If nothing else to his credibility, Near knew how to gain people's attention when he wanted it.

"Very well then. We were wondering what this... package... meant."

Near turns in his seat, tilting his head at the Commander. He clears his throat and continues.

"Is it a gift for you?"

"Do you mean a gift for me versus a gift for N, the head of the SPK?"

The man nods, as does Giovanni.

"Although your trains of thought, that is, for the furthering of this case and my general wellbeing are encouraging, I'm afraid that this," Near picks up the box and begins to untie the golden bow, the colour a stark contrast to his deathly pallor, "is for me. Just for Near."

The officers watch the bow tumble gracefully to the floor, soon followed by the lid of the box.

"But... how would the sender know to mail the package here?" Giovanni asks.

By the light of the flickering monitors, Giovanni could almost see something that resembles a smile cross Near's pale face. Curiosity getting the better of him, he shuffles slightly to the left.

Nestled in white paper tucked snugly into the silver box, is a robot. A child's toy, with a stark black body and light up eyes.

Near seems fascinated; his eyes grow wide with surprise and wonder as he lifts it out of the box. His fingers play at the stiff arms of the robot, moving them up and down like a marching solider, the harsh florescent lights making the robot's body shine like black leather.

Seemingly forgetting where his is, the officers watch their employer slide off his chair and onto the floor, lifting the robot to his eye level and flicking the button that lights up the toy's eyes.

An icy blue beam reflects off Near's grey eyes, making them widen drastically, and the boy finally answers.

"Because..."

He runs a pale finger over the chest of the robot, and taps it in the top right hand corner. Giovanni can hear a soft click, but Near is leaning too close, and his vision of the toy is obscured.

"He'd want me to find it. To let me know."

"He, sir?"

Nate River smiles down at the red and black stripped heart nestled in the robot's opened chest, and doesn't answer.

* * *

_A/N – _

_Reviews will be accepted with unhealthy amounts of love and cookies!_

_You know you want to!_


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